Of Éclairs, Tarts and Cream puffs
by Ms. Marin
Summary: Gladstone goes missing! In the process of finding him, Mommy Watson and Daddy Holmes remember the origin of Gladstone, Watson's pastry compulsion and Holmes' abnormally large ego that probably compensates for... something else.
1. Part 01 Watson

" **Of ****Éclairs, Tarts and Cream puffs ****"**

Holmes/Watson

**A/N:**This is clearly my first time writing Sherlock Holmes fanfiction, so please bear that in mind if anything seems out of place. I've loved the books since I was a little girl, but I'm totally new to the '09 movie side of things! Which basically means I'm pulling stuff out of my ass and therefore everything should be taken with a grain of salt, etc.

I hope this will be an enjoyable fic anyways!

* * *

_Part 01 – Watson_

Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson lived as harmoniously as the condition of flatmates allowed them. Watson overlooked Holmes' out of the ordinary antics as nearly charming, whereas Holmes accepted Watson's boring habits as a way to connect with a side of world he didn't care much for through a person he could actually trust and respect.

Overall, it was mostly a matter of trust and it worked wonders for them. Most of the time, that is. There were only a handful of things that could come between the two of them, a very select few.

On one occasion Holmes had been locked away into his study for four weeks and a half after a particularly interesting though distressing case. Watson knew better than to attempt to pluck him out of that dark place, so he usually just let Holmes _enjoy_ his adrenaline withdrawal in peace. This time, however, that would be impossible; something terrible had happened.

Watson had tried knocking on the door, sliding slips of paper with messages and even morse-code, but nothing seemed enough to catch his friend's attention. At last, furious with Holmes' childishness, Watson decided to do what he did best: knock doors down. He took a few steps back and then went shoulder first against the wooden door. The hinges snapped right off, but the door didn't fall and Watson ended up in pain on the floor.

"No!" shouted Watson, in a strained voice. "I will _not_ stand for cabinets barricading doors in this house!"

There was some silence, then came a soft, though slightly ironic answer from inside the room: "It's a _bookshelf_, Watson."

Watson had quite given up trying to catch his friend's attention when, that evening, something glorious happened: Watson had a plan! It was vengeance and the means to catch his attention, all rolled into one. He positioned himself by Holmes' door, feeling rather sneaky.

"Oh, _Holmes_!" Watson called, poorly masking the excitement in his voice. "There's a letter here that might interest you!" Despite not meeting an answer, he continued, "It's a letter from King Leopold of Belgium. He accounts in his letter that a, uh, _diamond _necklace has been stolen from within the... royal castle. Of _Belgium_, you see," Watson cringed, but continued upon hearing movement inside the room. "It was within this vault, see, and now it's not there anymore. And it was locked from the inside and there are a ton of footprints. I know of your love for footprints, it never fails to make me positively uncomfortable."

There was sudden quietness within the room, as if Holmes were accessing the situation. Watson smiled knowingly.

"There's a suspicious butler," the bookshelf began moving, "But they think it might have been the King's secret _lover_," the shelf moved some more, "Or perhaps a _ghost_."

The door suddenly burst open.

"Spare me the paranormal babble!" exclaimed Holmes indignantly.

Watson shook his head. "I know! It was quite clearly to me that the royal cook's second cousin once removed was to blame, for those Belgian chocolate waffles are too fantastic to be made by anyone who hasn't sold their soul to the Devil!"

Upon seeing Watson propped on the door-frame, smirking, Holmes acknowledged the trap with a sigh.

"There's no such letter, is there?" he asked.

"Gladstone is missing," said Watson simply.

"You're much too cruel, my dear Watson. Never joke to me about ransacked vaults closed from the inside. It's too cruel." Holmes picked up the destroyed door from the floor. "Dear me, you and your door knocking fetish, Watson. It's the tenth time this month. Control yourself!"

Watson took the door away from his friend's grasp.

"Gladstone is _gone_, Holmes!" he exclaimed. "I haven't seen him since noon today. Is he with you?"

Holmes wrinkled his forehead and took a quick glance behind himself. He ran his hand through his hair, thoughtfully.

"He is stuffing his face in the kitchen downstairs," answered Holmes, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I'd go check my cream puff stock if I were _you_, Watson."

Watson grabbed his friend by the arm before he could disappear back into the room.

"Oh, _no_, you're not going back in there until you find my dog!"

"I beg your pardon, did I hear that right? Your dog?" Holmes scoffed. "Last time I checked, Gladstone was mine."

"I hardly think a test subject is the same as a pet!" Watson bellowed. "I feed him. Gladstone is mine."

Holmes frowned, marching down the stairs. "You'll feed anything. You even overfeed yourself. That doesn't count at all!"

"I haven't gained weight in months!"

"Tell that to those poor, strained khakis. Clearly 4 numbers too small," said Holmes, shaking his head. "Oh, Gladstone!"

Holmes burst into the kitchen and began surveilling the room for Gladstone. He had been hoping for a dramatic uncovering of the dog, but there was no sign of him.

"Like I told you before, he's not here," said Watson matter-of-factly.

The air became heavy all of a sudden. Holmes eyed here and there without uttering a word, looking paler by the second.

Noticing his silence, Watson approached him and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder; It was an uncomfortable gesture for both and it felt completely improper. Holmes had never needed further support with that gargantuan ego of his, yet there they were, Watson putting his motherly instincts to use while Holmes was mute and unmoving in his place.

He turned to Watson hastily.

"Watson, I do not like this feeling of not knowing where everyone is and why and how."

"Jesus, is that _all_ you care about?" Watson bellowed, grabbing him by both shoulders. "I have gone out numerous times without announcing where to and things were just fine. Relax, take a deep breath."

Holmes shrugged. "Don't be silly, Watson! I always know where you are."

"What?"

Holmes raised an eyebrow and looked confused, as if asking "What" right back at him. The cynical twerp!

"Look here!" Holmes escaped Watson's grip and ran to Gladstone's bowls by the backdoor. "There's still food in this one, yet no water. Have we had any rain recently?"

"This is London."

"Aha! Then that's quite settled. Gladstone is behind this door," Holmes concluded, stepping aside to open the door triumphantly.

The backyard looked quite empty. No Gladstone in sight.

"I'm officially vexed." Holmes shook his head.

"And I'm officially not sure how I feel about you stalking me, Holmes."

Watson followed Holmes into the empty backyard. The pavement was moist and there was some dirt scattered around, all due to a drizzly afternoon. It was a strangely clouded night and the pair could only barely see the contour of things. Holmes went back inside and came back with a lamp.

Whilst Holmes paced about the area closely searching the ground, Watson took to looking at the bigger picture. He wasn't such an ingenious investigator like Holmes, but he loved his Gladstone and knew better about his habits than anyone else. Holmes, on the other hand, was probably just vexed by the situation and not at all bothered by Gladstone's absence.

"We have a hole on this wooden fence right here," said Holmes to no one in particular. "The abnormally large diameter seems consistent with Gladstone."

Watson paid him little at those times. In this particular occasion he was more worried about results, and a little too concerned about his own ruined brown boots. He had stepped on a pile of dirt, leaves and wet, crunched coal.

Watson stopped dead in his tracks. Dirt? Gladstone wouldn't dare! He was a refined dog, not the kind to go prancing about in the rain for prolonged periods of time.

"Holmes! He wouldn't walk in the rain."

"What? Dogs like rain."

"Not my Gladstone, he doesn't!"

"I thought we had already settled whose dog he is, _Watson_," said Holmes menacingly.

"Yes we did," said Watson with a clenched jaw. "He is mine."

"Oh, spare me! I'm the one who allowed him to stay."

"I'm not the one who almost killed him twenty five times!"

"You have actually counted? That's a disease, Watson!" Holmes sighed and shrugged, as if the case had been quite won. "Regardless. He loves me best, it's _quite_ clear."

Watson looked down at his once beautiful shoes. They were ruined. His head hurt and there was a constant buzzing in his ear from an unidentified source. Watson felt cold and exposed out there and he wasn't feeling particularly sympathetic towards Holmes that day. He had mistreated Watson for weeks. Who was he to talk about being loved? He gave to reason for such emotion.

Watson looked back up at Holmes.

"Does he, now? Why should he? You only show any care for him when it suits you. You spend all your time locked away in your room, doing Lord knows what, and when you come out you expect him to be waiting for you here as if nothing had happened at all!" he said indignantly. "You don't have that right. Not _this _you, the one that barricades doors against the only ones who care about him."

Holmes bit his lower lip and then cleared his throat.

"I'm under the impression we're not talking about Gladstone anymore," said he, flustered.

Watson sighed. "I suppose not. And yet we are. Do you even remember the time we got him in the first place?"

"That was a long time ago," said Holmes softly. "I might vaguely remember... I'd have to search my brain-attic."

"You're hopeless." Watson sighed. "I, for one, remember perfectly because it _matters_ to me."

"To me it doesn't. I couldn't care less and have no recollection on the matter," said Holmes, a little too harshly. "Whatsoever. At all."

_We had just been introduced and settled on sharing rent on our house on Baker Street. It was the day I brought my things. You, Holmes, were comfortably sitting in the living room while I hauled my stuff in. I remember distinctly how much I wanted to punch you in the face._

"And I've apologized for that before!" interrupted Holmes.

_Continuing. I had just finished getting settled down when Mrs. Hudson served our first dinner together. I was positively completely disturbed by your lack of hospitality. I wasn't one to give a damn about social skills, for I have very little of them myself, but I began having second thoughts about my living together with a man of questionable scalp hygiene._

"Oh, my hair wasn't _that_ dreadful," said Holmes, rolling his eyes.

_Yes, it _is _dreadful. Anyhow, I began to wonder if I had made the right decision, but since it was either that or the streets, I decided to stay and see how events would unfold._

"Cheers for being a better companion than a homeless person and a prostitute!"

_As it happened, I continued to be slightly ignored. Overtime my ineptitude at conveying my feelings and thoughts to you taught me more about who you were and about who I was than any polite conversation regarding the weather could. I learned to appreciate your work and I felt you appreciated my dullness enough to confide in me._

_One day I had the extreme pleasure of witnessing you locking yourself in your room for a full week. I was desperate! _

Holmes frowned. "Well, go on. It's just getting interesting! I rather enjoy hearing about myself."

Watson sighed and sat down on the steps of the backyard door, supporting himself on his cane.

"So when you came back to your senses we went out and got a puppy," he said with a shrug. "The end."

"Oh, no, no! That's not how _I_ remember it!"

Watson crossed his arms. "That's because you _don't _remember. Remember?"

"Fine!" exclaimed Holmes, throwing his hands in air. "I do and it didn't go as simple as that."

_I had been, as you like to call it, "locked away" in my room for a week._

"As _I _like to call it? Do tell what people call it 'in the streets' these days!" Watson said in a high pitched voice.

"Settle down, now. Let's not get any underpants in any bunches," said Holmes calmly. "Allow me to finish."

_I was locked away in my room doing _very important_ Scientific Discoveries for a week, something that I can only manage to do when I have some free time. But I noticed that my new flatmate had been growing increasingly nervous over my absence. At first I felt very proud of myself for having such an effect on people – though that was only to be expected – but then I started to notice the extent of my influence._

_A gift or a curse? That's the beauty of being _me_._

_My flatmate began limiting his wardrobe, I noticed, which probably indicated an increase of weight. I saw him consume large amounts of sugary pastries throughout the day. In fact, he made several trips to our local bakeries, each time to a different one which indicated either that he had developed a keener taste as his overeating progressed or that the bakeries were, one by one, sold out after his visits._

_Before I'm interrupted, I'd just like to add that I'm hardly ever wrong or ever proved to be wrong, therefore it would be less shameful to take me word for it!_

_As I was saying, my flatmate had been acting up in a way that worried more than enthralled. Thus I decided to venture out into the world to allow him some comfort._

"So we went out and _I_ got _you_ a puppy, to quench your sadness," said Holmes with a formal bow.

"That's not it at all! Firstly I never made 'several trips' to any bakeries!" exclaimed Watson indignantly. "And secondly, I'm not the one who needed a puppy."

"Oh, yes you did, my delicate flower of a friend! You needed something to love more than cream scones." Holmes rested his chin on his left hand as if in deep thought. "Did I succeed? I do not know."

"Oh, shush." Watson crossed his arms over his chest and sulked. "If you're not going to find our Gladstone, than I'll look for him by myself!"

Watson got up at once and began his way to the dimly lit streets. Holmes tried to follow close behind, but was held back several paces due to Watson's much wider steps.

"You wait just a second, you Sasquatch!" cried Holmes far behind, waving his hand.

"It is _no__t_ my fault you're very, very small," answered Watson icily.

"Stop, I say!" Holmes shouted more severely. "If you want me to find Gladstone you'll have to stop tampering with _my crime scene_!"

Watson stopped where he was to ponder briefly. He eyed Holmes defiantly and they had a silent battle of wills where one raised eyebrows at the other until the other gave in. Watson admitted to his defeat with a sigh and they began making their way back to the front porch.

"What do you expect to find out here?" Watson inquired.

"You see, Watson," started Holmes at length. "In your haste you simply didn't notice that the front door wasn't locked or so much as fully closed."

Holmes walked up to the door and crouched, examining the door-frame.

"See here," he called and Watson crouched beside him. "Scratch marks. He either produced those on this occasion or he's used to doing so on a regular basis."

"My Gladstone wouldn't go out to the streets like this. He's a refined dog, pure-bred!"

"Perhaps if the need were to arise... here," Holmes pressed his shoulder against the door and pushed lightly. "Do you think he had sufficient strength? How much does he currently weight? Some 50 lbs?"

Watson eyed him icily. Holmes tilted his head as if waiting for an answer, but all he got was a lousy punch in the arm.

"Under 50lbs it is, then," Holmes stated hurriedly.

"I'm not sure about his weight." Watson tested the door himself. "I think he could do it, either with his paw or–"

It wasn't very late in the evening, only past eight o'clock, and Holmes and Watson weren't being exactly private about their business. There were still some people walking about in the streets and the sight of two grown men leaning on a door side by side was a pretty interesting one. So much that a group of ladies across the street stopped to watch them, sharing the confusion of the inhabitants of other Baker Street homes, who were all crammed on their own windows watching the spectacle.

"But we mustn't limit ourselves to shoulders, for mine are fairly strong, you see!" said Holmes.

"Mine are clearly stronger."

"Yes, you knock down a lot of doors, we get it. No need to get cocky about it!" Holmes knelt down on all fours on the steps. "Let's try it with just a hand."

A lady passing by stopped abruptly, almost tearing his husband's arm out, to admire such a clearly awesome view.

The door opened suddenly and Watson, who had been leaning on it, fell to the floor.

"Lovely evening, Mrs. Hudson," he said uncomfortably, looking up.

"Lovely, Dr. Watson," the landlady answered curtly.

Holmes picked himself up quickly and straightened his clothes.

"If you'll excuse us, we have a proper investigation to conduct, your Vileness," Holmes said pompously.

Mrs. Hudson looked positively enormous when she blocked doors. She was a slight woman, but her facial expression was sufficient to stop any man dead in his tracks. Watson swallowed dry. Holmes pretended he had nothing to do with the situation at all and looked the other way, waving at some ladies across the street.

"The neighbors are complaining about the noise, gentleman," said she. "And I am as well."

"It's a matter of dire importance, Mrs. Hudson," said Holmes, still averting her gaze.

The landlady raised her hand to keep him from speaking and addressed Watson.

"I really don't care, as long as I don't have to hear him," she pointed at Holmes, "Shouting at the top of his lungs his unrequited feelings for the whole London to hear."

Holmes gave a very manly gasp.

"Unrequited? You vex and astound me, demon lady!" he said.

"As for the dog, I would concentrate on finding poor Gladstone. For in matter of ownership, the case is quite settled. You see," she added with a sly grin, "I clean his poop."

Holmes gasped, not so manly this time, reaching for Watson's arm for support.

"How dare you!"

Mrs. Hudson grinned an evil grin.

"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Hudson, we will be very, very quiet now," Watson assured, grasping Holmes by both arms. "Aren't we, Holmes?"

"Quiet as graves, nanny. I can promise with all certainty you shall discover the exact feel of sleeping in a cemetery." Holmes squinted. "How silly of me, you already know all about that! _Zombie woman_."

Mrs. Hudson scoffed and reentered the house. The streets were clear by then, adding to the feeling of hopelessness that had taken over Watson. He let go of his grip on Holmes without resistance and sighed; His defeatist personality about to get the best of him.

They had spent the last two hours shouting and playing with doors. Gladstone was gone, never to return!

"Never mind the Jabberwocky," Holmes said, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. "It just so happens I know what our next move will be."

"I'm not that optimistic," Watson admitted, twirling his cane as he walked inside. "Any possible clues are invisible to me."

"Ha! That's the thing about you, Watson. If you weren't specifically looking for it, you wouldn't see a clue even if it were dancing right under your nose, covered in glazed sugar," said Holmes ominously, before rushing up the stairs. "Have some faith my abilities, man. We will find our Gladstone. But now we must retire for the evening."

Deep in his heart Watson didn't feel like he wanted to "retire" when his Gladstone could be cold and hurt somewhere else, but he had always trusted Holmes even with his life and now would be no different. Watson knew he wouldn't sleep at all that night, though.

"That's a very bad anecdote," he said softly, before starting after Holmes.

Did Holmes care enough about Gladstone or he just another case? Watson wondered if he really remembered the day they got Gladstone. Even if he did, he clearly didn't care.


	2. Part 02 Holmes

_Part 02 – Holmes_

Watson ended up falling asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Despite being totally concerned about Gladstone, which he was indeed, Watson was a man of routines; His body knew that if he missed any precious hours of sleep things would get vicious.

That didn't keep his mind from feeling guilty, though.

The night was shrouded in bad dreams, but the most striking came early in the morning when Watson found himself being chased by a giant Gladstone who intended on eating him with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. The ground was shaking and he was out of breath! Gladstone was a mere foot away–

"Watson!"

Watson sat up abruptly, knocking his head on something hard that let out a scream

"_Really_? This close to my face this early in the morning?" Watson exclaimed, massaging his forehead.

"Element of surprise, _etcetera. _Don't tell me you saw that coming." Holmes shrugged it off like he didn't care and began to leave. "We have a letter of dire importance, by the way."

It was probably news of Gladstone, Watson assumed.

He hastily put some clothes on and rushed to the sitting room where Holmes awaited with the letter ready at hand.

_ DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,_ _I come to you at my most desperate time. I work for Mr. Robert Bloom as his butler and a week ago he instructed me on preparing his offer of marriage to a lady close to his heart. I organized a especial lunch for the pair and was handed a sapphire ring to place within the lady's dessert._

Holmes laughed. "Isn't that _original_, Watson?"

_I did as I was told and the day of the proposal arrived. Yesterday, to be precise. However, something terrible came to pass! The lady ate her dessert and found nothing! Mr. Bloom was horribly distressed, for the ring was rather large and impossible to go unnoticed. The baker is a very reliable one and placed the ring in the pastry as directed. We have been robed, Mr. Holmes! I shall surely be sacked if I do not find this ring, please aid me to the best of your ability to find the scoundrel who stole from us. _

_Yours,_

_Alphonse Morrow._

"That's absurd," Watson said, rubbing his chin.

"Quite so! Who names their child Alphonse?"

Watson glared menacingly at Holmes, who folded the letter carefully as if he hadn't noticed.

"I do not see how this relates to Gladstone," Watson went on.

"At _your_ first glance, it doesn't. But, you see my dear, dear Watson, we are talking about bakeries and desserts," said Holmes as he paced about the room with his hands behind his back.

"No more fat dog jokes!" Watson cried.

"Oh, please! I'm past that," Holmes said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "No, this is a fat Watson joke, for I wish you to tell me how close is _this _bakery from our home."

Watson snatched the letter off Holmes' hand. The butler had added a footnote with the name of the hired bakery. Watson ruefully realized he knew where it was located.

"It's close," he said sourly. "Two blocks at the most."

"Marvelous! We are off!"

St. Clair Bakery was a friendly little shop with a french feel to it with a glass window up front that displayed some of the bakery's specialties. Watson had been there more times than he would have liked to admit to.

"Have you been here before?" Holmes asked suddenly when they were approaching the shop.

"Yes."

"How many?" he inquired, gently, as to hide his mischievous intentions.

Watson glared. "Plenty, if that's what you want to hear," he said. "You can go in, I will wait out here."

"Nonsense!"

Holmes gallantly opened the door and waved for his friend to come inside. Watson squinted and walked in with some resistance.

"Dr. Watson!" exclaimed a stout man behind the counter. "How good it is to see you, doctor. The usual for you, doctor?"

Holmes let out a throaty laugh and Watson very carefully – but not at all gently – rested the tip of his cane on his friend's foot, who had to stifle a cry.

"It's good to see you too, Mr. St Clair. Unfortunately, today we are here on business," Watson said, leaning on the counter-top.

"Not bad news, I hope!" the shopkeeper exclaimed, with a sideways glance at Holmes.

"With bad news," Watson conceded. "This is my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Our dog, Gladstone, has disappeared."

Mr. St Clair raised an eyebrow and nodded, as if unsure what emotion to convey. "Oh," he said.

"He's an English Bulldog, caramel and cream colored, small," Watson explained.

"Well, I wouldn't say 'small' is a very suitable adjective, Watson," Holmes interjected as he paced about the bakery staring at the displayed confections. "Oh, look, Watson! Look at these chocolate tarts. They look delicious."

"Why," exclaimed the shopkeeper. "Those are Dr. Watson's favorites if I'm not mistaken. He always orders a batch of those when he comes around. And some camomile tea, is it not, doctor?"

Holmes turned to his friend with a sly grin. "Is it not, my dear Watson?"

"Yes," Watson answered stiffly with a bite to his lower lip. He _was_ being stalked, then. "It is so."

Holmes spun on his heels to stare back at the shopkeeper.

"But this is not at all why we are here, my good man. We need to know what you sold to a Mr. Morrow yesterday morning," Holmes explained. "He is the butler of Mr. Bloom and he was preparing a special lunch for his employer."

Mr. St Clair looked obviously flustered as he pointed to a trey in his glass and wood counter.

"Éclairs, sir, he ordered dark chocolate éclairs," he said.

Watson stared slightly shocked at Holmes.

"Those are Gladstone's favorites," he said with a tinge of sadness in his voice.

"I know, I know," Holmes answered before returning his attention to the shopkeeper.

"Mr. Holmes, this is very awkward to me, you'll understand, sir. But you're not the first to come around today asking about éclairs," Mr. St Clair said. "I had at least five other gentlemen asking around. All ordering dark chocolate éclairs, but none of them interested in my fresh batch, they wanted ones from yesterday's! This got me very concerned, for I knew what I put in Mr. Morrow's éclairs. I began to wonder whether something had gone terribly wrong with the proposal!"

"Then you did hand the éclairs directly to Mr. Morrow?" Holmes insisted, with Watson close at his shoulder staring in a very distressed manner.

"Yes I did, sir!"

"And did anyone else know about the contents of the éclair?"

"Only my pupil," he said decidedly. "But he's not – he's not in today!"

The shopkeeper's expression suddenly changed and he looked just about ready to faint.

Holmes looked back at Watson with a smile. "I have formed my conclusions."

"But how did all of this come to pass, Holmes? It's unfathomable!"

"Not quite. It so happens Gladstone, who is always ready for a good meal, takes to the streets when searching for food every now and again," explained Holmes.

"Or when he's running from _you!_" Watson interjected.

"Impossible. Gladstone is the only one in that house to realize the importance of _our_ experiments," he scrutinized. "Anyhow. On that day he went out and smelled his favorite pastry! His instinct was to attack, only he didn't know that the man carrying the sweets had already stolen them from the shop he worked at. Upon seeing Gladstone eat the éclair containing the ring, the man sweeps him away to his hide out."

"Which just so happens to be on a street exactly parallel to ours!" Watson concluded, finally experiencing the delightful feeling of a cleared up case.

"Allow me to describe how this is going to go," Holmes said as they walked together to the pupil's house

"Suit yourself." Watson shrugged. All he cared about now was taking his Gladstone home, no matter the cost.

_We are going to arrive in front of the man's house. He lives on the second floor, but we will be denied entrance right away; He will have forbidden visitors. We will shout for him to come down and be a man, but he will appears dangling Gladstone on the open window. You will cry in despair, but I will comfort you with a manly, friendly hug._

"_Damn you! Let our dog go, you scoundrel, excuse of a man!" I shall shout._

"_What shall we do?" you will cry in a distressed voice._

_Upon hearing Gladstone's whine coming from inside the building, I shall candidate myself to climb up there and rescue him. You will try to stop me, claiming it is just too dangerous. I, however, live for the danger and will grasp your shoulders and tell you so. You will, with a single heartfelt tear and a heavy heart, bid me farewell._

"_Your friendship is my world!" you will cry._

_I will then climb to the second floor and beat the man to a pulp. He, however, had time to active a destructive bomb._

_There will be an explosion! Believing me dead you will fall to your knees and cry._

_Just then, I come out the front door– with Gladstone in my arms and the ring safe in my pocket! _

"_Oh, Holmes!" you will cry in high pitched stupor, running to me. "Thank Heavens you are safe!"_

"And that," Holmes said, with his hands in his pocket and a puffed chest, "Is how it will happen."

"Why must I _cry_ so much?" Watson inquired, staring at Holmes perplexedly.

"Because you're the girl, of course."

He scoffed and prepared his insults when Holmes flung his arm in front of Watson and kept him from taking another step.

"Watson, we're here," he whispered, though they were in the middle of a crowded street with heavy traffic.

"I can see that. What do we do now?" Watson asked.

"We put our previously decided plan to work!" Holmes declared. "Prepare yourself!"

As farfetched as Holmes' plan had seemed before, Watson couldn't help catching one final deep breath before plunging himself into action. A feeling of impending danger caught him unprepared, but he was quick to ready himself to do whatever he must to have his dog back.

Watson turned to Holmes to inspect what their first move would actually be and he found his friend looking very strange. Whenever Holmes concluded a case he was always at his most concentrated, yet Watson had never seen him look so totally angry. His face was nearly contorted with apprehension and he seemed ready to strike.

"H-Holmes?" Watson stuttered.

Holmes didn't even listen, his hand was already inside his coat, pulling out a pistol.

He had remembered to bring his pistol! That was... unprecedented.

The front door of the house suddenly opened and a man walked out. To their surprise he had an overweight English Bulldog in his arms. The man looked as positively foul as Watson had pictured him in his mind, but not for the same reasons, such as intrinsic evilness and such. He was carrying Gladstone way ahead of himself, as if in disgust.

"Gladstone!" Watson cried, which meant Holmes was partially right in his description of how things would go.

Holmes charged ahead of Watson and went to the man, pistol in hand and cocked.

"It's over. Hand over the dog and prepare yourself to be punished by the law! I have called for the police and they are on their way," Holmes announced in a ferocious manner that was unlike anything Watson had ever seen.

"Go ahead!" the man exclaimed, trusting Gladstone in Holmes' arms. "You take this sack of gas! Lock me up, lock me up tight and good but _never_ let that thing in my presence again! He chewed the legs of my chairs, peed on my _chaise longue–_"

Holmes rolled his eyes.

"My Gladstone isn't that bad," Watson said with shaky certainty in his voice, taking the dog from Holmes. "Is he?"

"He defecated in my hat!" the man screamed.

Holmes turned hastily to Watson and nodded. "Yes, the dog can be pretty bad," he said, taking a step back to put a hand on Watson's shoulder. "But he's _our_ dog. And despite all his flaws, you seem to love him. That's why he's such a better dog when around _you_, Watson."

Watson had ran out of words at the most important moment of their quest, but it was all right. They had retired words for this sort of thing a long time ago.

Watson simply smiled.

The police arrived shortly and Holmes took that opportunity to enter the thief's house in search of the ring. He clearly already knew where to find it, so it took only a moment to pick a hat out of the man's closet and trust it to the Inspector's care.

"Jesus Christ, what is that smell?" the random Inspector asked, before taking a good look at what he was holding. When he finally saw the poo, he had to use all his might to keep from vomiting.

"You may search that when you've got the time, Inspector. The ring is somewhere in– _there,_" Holmes explained with a grin and a wave towards the hat. "Enjoy."

Watson had been watching the whole ordeal a few feet away with Gladstone safe in his arms and getting petted every which way.

"Finally happy, are we?" Holmes asked as he walked towards the two of them, beaming. "I was very worried about you."

Watson laughed and began to answer: "I suppose–"

"Who's a good, fat dog? Huh?" Holmes said, grabbing Gladstone by his flabby cheeks and squeezing. "My little poop machine! You sure taught that _evil_ man a lesson, didn't you? I was so worried!" Watson stood and stared, speechless. Holmes added in a high pitched, cutesy voice: "_Didn't you?_"

Watson looked the other way.

Think of a nice things, John, think of the sea and mountains and bunny rabbits, he thought to himself.

"You were right about one thing, Holmes," Watson said in a strained voice, tightening his grip on Gladstone. "I think we should go home before I destroy my back."

Holmes let go of Gladstone, his fingers covered in drool which he promptly cleaned off on the back of Watson's jacket.

"Oh, God! That's a brand new jacket!"

"It's just a little dog spit, Watson, don't be such a _girl!_" Holmes mocked with one final pat of Gladstone's head. Returning to baby-talk mode, he added: "_Let's take my baby home_!"

"_Our _baby! I mean– dog!" Watson interjected. "Now let's go before your start cooing in public and we never get into Good Society again!"

Holmes laughed. "We are not in any Society."

"And whose fault is that, now?" Watson asked.

"I've no idea," Holmes answered sincerely.


	3. Part 03 Gladstone

Part 03 - Gladstone

The real story of the origin of Gladstone could heavily depend upon the point of view it is presented from. In this case, this is the actual way facts developed around the time Sherlock Holmes decided to come out hiding from his room.

He had noticed Watson's comings and goings for a while and they started to worry him. He had been living with Watson for a short period of time, but he had never felt so at home with anyone else. It got to a point where Watson's spirits began to make him unhappy as well. He opted to come out of hiding for him.

Watson was indeed pained by his flatmate's habits. He was a man who didn't require much company, but for some reason he seemed to seek and crave Holmes'. So much that when he came out of his room after such a long time, Watson felt like they should go out before Holmes decided to go back to seclusion.

Holmes would never have conceded to going out with anyone else, especially not on one of those fruitless walks. Yet he went out anyway because he secretly wanted Watson to forgive him for... whatever it was he had done without minding Watson's precious little feelings. It had something to do with his more private experiments, though Holmes couldn't _quite_ put a finger on it.

They were walking in complete silence down the streets of London when Watson, trying to come up with a subject to make empty conversation about, saw a pet store with a pup sitting there for sale. Watson approached the little dog and petted him like one does to any random dog, completely without second intentions, but the way the dog responded to being petted seemed to... fit. It simply fit.

Watson grabbed the pup in his arms and kept him there. Holmes was all the while watching from a safe distance, careful as he was with dogs.

"Look, Holmes! It's an... 'English Bulldog'," Watson read on the cage the dog had been kept in. "He looks grumpy. Almost like you, Holmes!"

Watson pulled the dog's face beside his own and mimicked the sour, lonely look that was inherent to the breed.

Holmes swallowed hard. He never quite got the hang of "cute things", yet there they were: two cute things staring right at him. He broke all his rules about attachment and feelings and strode forward to pet the dog's head. Fur. Nothing special.

Then he looked up at Watson, who had a foolish but utterly joyful look on his face.

Holmes felt suddenly happy being a part of Watson's happiness.

"You go and buy that thing before I end up having to administer a shot of insulin right to the vein!" Holmes exclaimed, pretending to take the shot.

Watson laughed and rushed off to purchase the dog. When he came back, Holmes was watching them attentively.

"He looks very... official," said Holmes, with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes he does! Like an official, powerful man," Watson said. "Gladstone. Doesn't he look like a 'Gladstone' to you?"

"No. Not at all." Holmes stared hard at the dog, then at Watson's beaming face. "But I like him already."

_Fin!_


End file.
